Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruised arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,-- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.
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Here is my gift, not roses on your grave, not sticks of burning incense. You lived aloof, maintaining to the end your magnificent disdain. You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes, and suffocated inside stifling walls. Alone you let the terrible stranger in, and stayed with her alone.
Now you're gone, and nobody says a word about your troubled and exalted life. Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn at your dumb funeral feast. Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I, I, sick with grief for the buried past, I, smoldering on a slow fire, having lost everything and forgotten all, would be fated to commemorate a man so full of strength and will and bright inventions, who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me, hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.
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Its a Story they tell in the border country, where Massachusetts joins Vermont and New Hampshire. Yes, Danl Websters deador, at least, they buried him. But every time theres a thunderstorm around Marshfield, they say you can hear his rolling voice in the hollows of the sky. And they say that if you go to his grave and speak loud and clear, Danl WebsterDanl Webster! the groundll begin to shiver and the trees begin to shake. And after a while youll hear a deep voice saying, Neighbor, how stands the Union? Then you better answer the Union stands as she stood, rock-bottomed and copper-sheathed, one and indivisible, or hes liable to rear right out of the ground. At least, thats what I was told when I was a youngster.
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I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you.
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We thank you, Almighty God, for the gift of water. Over it the Holy Spirit moved in the beginning of creation. Through it you led the children of Israel out of their bondage in Egypt into the land of promise. In it your Son Jesus received the baptism of John and we are buried with Christ in his death. By it we share in his resurrection. Through it we are reborn by the Holy Spirit.
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Let all Black Poets die as trumpets, And be buried in the dust of marching feet.
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Of a truth, Knowledge is power, but it is a power reined by scruple, having a conscience of what must be and what may be; whereas Ignorance is a blind giant who, let him but wax unbound, would make it a sport to seize the pillars that hold up the long-wrought fabric of human good, and turn all the places of joy as dark as a buried Babylon.
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'Out upon merry Christmas What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer... If I could work my will,' said Scrooge indignantly, 'every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' upon his lips should be boiled with his won pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should'
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Human consciousness arose but a minute before midnight on the geological clock. Yet we mayflies try to bend an ancient world to our purposes, ignorant perhaps of the messages buried in its long history. Let us hope that we are still in the early morning of our April day.
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My grandmother was a very tough woman. She buried three husbands and two of them were just napping.
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Myth is the hidden part of every story, the buried part, the region that is still unexplored because there are as yet no words to enable us to get there. Myth is nourished by silence as well as by words.
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A group touring Westminster Abbey in London heard the guide list the famous people buried within its walls. During a momentary silence a little old lady's voice blurted out loud and clear, Anybody been saved here lately?
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The undisputed reign of my heart. Presiding over the un-included want, to fall In love. Over again this day will come, as my bride is converted to pride, and my pain To pleasure. As my controversy changes its State, and is now known as open-minded, as my Opinion is now valued, and I am now good Enough for your daughter. I don't want her. I'm good enough now to see what you wanted From me, a perfect being, I was being Deceiving. No one ever said it would be this Hard to fall in love, and no body ever told Me it would be so easy to regret every second A second time again, a mistake I mistook as A promise from you to me. As I cry, as I'm Buried, under acres of tears, under the sky, The eternal triumph that I strived to Perfect, the full circle of love, I've vowed To Protect.
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Look, Tiger, if I was to be buried in potter's field, it'd just about kill me!
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Visit the Navy-Yard, and behold a marine, such a man as an American government can make, or such as it can make a man with its black arts -- a mere shadow and reminiscence of humanity, a man laid out alive and standing, and already, as one may say, buried under arms with funeral accompaniments.
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Colossians 2:12:
Having been buried with him in baptism, in which you were also raised with him through your faith in the working of God, who raised him from the dead.
(NIV)
[Thus you were circumcised when] you were buried with Him in [your] baptism, in which you were also raised with Him [to a new life] through [your] faith in the working of God [as displayed] when He raised Him up from the dead.
(AMP)
Buried with him in baptism, wherein also ye are risen with him through the faith of the operation of God, who hath raised him from the dead.
(KJV)
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From an actual newspaper contest where entrants age 4 to 15 were asked to imitate 'Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey':
My young brother asked me what happens after we die. I told him we get buried under a bunch of dirt and worms eat our bodies. I guess I should have told him the truth -- that most of us go to Hell and burn eternally -- but I didn't want to upset him.
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Perhaps all music, even the newest, is not so much something discovered as something that re-emerges from where it lay buried in the memory, inaudible as a melody cut in a disc of flesh. A composer lets me hear a song that has always been shut up silent within me.
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All I desire for my own burial, is not to be buried alive; but how or where, I think, must be entirely indifferent to every rational creature.
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Mortua—sed non sepulta! Mortua—sed non sepulta! [Dead—but not buried! Dead—but not buried!]
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True human goodness, in all its purity and freedom, can come to the fore only when its recipient has no power. Mankind's true moral test, its fundamental test (which lies deeply buried from view), consists of its attitude towards those who are at its mercy: animals. And in this respect mankind has suffered a fundamental debacle, a debacle so fundamental that all others stem from it.
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There is, of course, a gold mine or a buried treasure on every mortgaged homestead. Whether the farmer ever digs for it or not, it is there, haunting his daydreams when the burden of debt is most unbearable.
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How tranquil is a coral tomb, and may the heavens grant that my companions and I be buried in no other!
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Romans 6:4:
We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life.
(NIV)
We were buried therefore with Him by the baptism into death, so that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glorious [power] of the Father, so we too might [habitually] live and behave in newness of life.
(AMP)
Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life.
(KJV)
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Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie
Dust unto dust
The calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die
As all men must;
Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell
Too strong to strive
Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell,
Buried alive;
But rather mourn the apathetic throng
The cowed and the meek
Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong
And dare not speak!
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'The World Health Organisation which had been running their 13-year smallpox eradication programme in the third world until 1980 wondered if the vaccinations were connected to the AIDS pandemic. They hired an outside consultant to do a study on it. He did and said... 'Yes your suspicion is correct.' But the report was buried by the WHO and so the consultant came to us... His credentials can not be dismissed... We are not giving his name, but the WHO know he is our source.'
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Mankind's true moral test, its fundamental test (which lies deeply buried from view), consists of its attitude towards those who are at its mercy animals. And in this respect mankind has suffered a fundamental debacle, a debacle so fundamental that all others stem from it.
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She has taken her passive pigeon poor, She has buried him down and down....
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People who don't know how to keep themselves healthy ought to have the decency to get themselves buried, and not waste time about it.
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Mourn not the dead that in the cool earth lie Dust unto dust The calm, sweet earth that mothers all who die As all men must; Mourn not your captive comrades who must dwell Too strong to strive Within each steel-bound coffin of a cell, Buried alive; But rather mourn the apathetic throng The cowed and the meek Who see the world's great anguish and its wrong And dare not speak!
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